‘These goods have been paid for, have they?’ Aphra said, laying down her knife.
‘According to our records, yes. Sums amounting to hundreds of pounds.’
‘Hundreds? Are you serious? Whatever for?’
‘Valuable ingredients, mistress. Precious stones and seed pearls. Sandalwood, root ginger and musk. Gum arabic and theriac from Venice. I import this kind of thing myself. It cannot be left there indefinitely. Besides which, Dr Ben’s recipes will be needing them.’
‘What...precious gems? Pearls? What on earth did he do with those?’
‘I have no idea, mistress. But that’s no reason not to collect what he ordered, is it? They’ve been paid for, so they should be here. You can always sell what you don’t want. I could do that easily enough, through my contacts.’
‘Who would I send to Southampton? Anybody?’
‘Someone dependable and honest, with your authorisation in their pockets. I could send Enrico and Dante first thing tomorrow, if you wish. They know their way round the warehouses, and the customs house, too.’
Aphra picked up her knife and handed it to him. ‘Would you mind cutting me a slice of the pork, please?’
Santo took it from her, trying not to betray the victory he felt. ‘Certainly, mistress. You are agreed, then, that they should go without delay?’
The pork slice, transparently thin, crumpled on to her platter. The ambiguous nod of her head was taken for both agreement and thanks. She could not waste time in arguments when there was precious cargo to be identified, signed for and conveyed safely to Sandrock. He was right. Such rare and expensive commodities were too valuable to leave uncollected. So Aphra’s decision to send him away was delayed once more. Instead of fuming over the change of plan, she felt it best to accept, for the time being, the unorthodox situation of having her ex-lover’s brother on site to handle the complexities of an apothecary’s trade, amongst other tasks that appeared, suddenly, to require immediate attention.
* * *
Before the end of their meal, however, an additional complication arrived in the form of a message just received from a breathless rider to say that Dr Ben’s elder brother Paul would arrive on the morrow, bringing with him his lady wife, their daughter and Aphra’s brother Edwin. Those four were the bare bones of the party, for Uncle Paul and Aunt Venetia never moved far these days without a retinue of servants, packhorses and grooms, assorted maids for this and that, and hounds. Always the hounds. Uncle Paul, and Edwin, too, liked to hunt and Aphra had no illusions whatever that the first visitors to her new tenancy had come as much for the hunting as to offer her some comfort. As she read the message, she wondered if they realised how much she preferred to be on her own at this time, taking each day at her own pace. Already that preference had been compromised and now she would be obliged to introduce Signor Datini to them when she would rather not. ‘Damn!’ she muttered, laying the paper to one side.
‘Bad news, mistress?’
She sighed. ‘No. I like them. But...’
‘But what? Who?’
‘Uncle Paul is coming for a few days. He’s a buyer for the Royal Wardrobe. My brother Edwin works as his assistant. Aunt Venetia is always very well dressed, as you might imagine. And Flora.’
‘Their daughter?’
‘She’s twelve. She has a twin brother called Marius and an older brother, Walter. I’m surprised they won’t be coming, too.’ Her eyes swept up and down the long polished table, imagining how it would look loaded with food each day and how much notice she had been given to prepare it. The kitchen staff were competent, but food needed to be either caught or made. ‘I suppose I shall have to take this kind of thing in my stride. Heaven knows I’ve had enough practice at it.’ Glaring at him from beneath her fine brows, she allowed her resentment to show, though Santo could see that there was something she was not sure how to express without incivility. ‘You wouldn’t like to...er...?’ Hiding her eyes with one hand, she tried to rephrase the question in her mind.
‘Wouldn’t like to what?’ he said, leaning forward. ‘To disappear while they’re here? Is that what you’re about to say?’
Guiltily, she nodded. ‘Yes. If you could just—’
‘No, madonna. That would not do. Nor can you pretend to them that I’m your lawyer. They are family. They will find out who I am soon enough, but you are mistaken if you think you owe them an explanation.’
Her head came up, defiantly. ‘Oh, yes, of course you’re right, signor. I simply say that you are the brother of the man who deceived me and that for some inexplicable reason I have offered you my hospitality instead of showing you the door. Now, what’s wrong with that as an explanation? Poor little Aphra. Desperate for a man. Any man. The first one who comes knocking. What an idiot, they’ll say.’ With fists clenched upon the table, she sat back and waited for him to speak, half-expecting him to find reasons, arguments, excuses, comforting words, justifications. But he said nothing and after a moment or two of silence she realised that he was about to agree with her, that the situation both of them accepted and understood would not be seen so charitably by others. Her parents had met Santo and seen how his presence might help her, but she could hardly expect the same kind of perception from relatives to whom he was a complete, and presumably unwelcome, stranger. Particularly Uncle Paul, who would get hold of the wrong end of the stick, so to speak, for although he was Dr Ben’s elder brother, he had little of Ben’s deep understanding of the foibles of human nature.
‘You could pretend to be my lawyer, as you’ve done so far,’ she said with a lift of her brows.
‘Not to relatives I couldn’t. I prefer to be honest unless there’s a very good reason to stretch the truth, as I have been doing.’
‘And if that doesn’t work, you lie.’ Her sarcasm was delivered more like a compliment.
‘No. But nor do I believe either of us owes anyone an explanation when it is none of their business. If that is truly too much for you to bear, then it would be best for me to leave first thing tomorrow to save you any embarrassment. If that is what you wish, I shall respect your decision. You have only to say.’
One fist unclenched to smooth a crease from her table napkin while her mind spun and asked questions she hardly dared to answer, so preposterous were they. ‘What about the seed pearls and gems?’ she whispered. ‘And the theriac?’
‘That depends on how much you want them. Do you?’
‘Want them? I certainly do. Hundreds of pounds?’
‘Well then, we’d better collect them.’
‘But what about...you know...explanations?’
‘Keep it simple. I am Santo Datini, merchant of Venice trading in glass and exotic spices, rare products from the East Indies, Persia, Egypt and wines from Cyprus. My ships come into Southampton every springtime.’
‘Is that how you got here, signor?’
‘It is indeed. It is also how my brother came to England and returned home. You mentioned that your aunt’s name is Venetia. So she’s not English?’
‘Italian. Her father was a silk merchant. Pietro Cappello. That’s how she met Uncle Paul, trading in silks for the Wardrobe.’ She saw how Santo was nodding, a bemused expression in his eyes as he followed her words. ‘You know him?’
‘Every Venetian merchant knows the Cappellos. A very wealthy and powerful family. Your uncle made a good match there.’
‘So is it likely that my aunt will know your family, too?’
‘It’s possible. Her father will, but he’s an old man now.’
‘I